


Something Soft

by electroncloudy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, mention of tracer dva widowmaker and lucio are really minor don't get tooe xcited, more prompt fills for the prompt fill gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7433197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electroncloudy/pseuds/electroncloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another prompt fill: "Headcannon that using the dragons takes a lot out of the Shimada brothers- particularly Hanzo since Genji is a bit differently wired nowadays do to speak ;3 so his new body handles it better. So prompt is for That! Exhausted Han after using the dragons, maybe Jesse only really noticing after they get closer, seeing the mans tells that show he's exhausted. (Maybe a Scene where Hanzo overdoes it, over exerting and summoning the dragons too much for a mission to the point he passes out? ;333 )"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Soft

**Author's Note:**

> For Wendigo.

The sky was raining fire. Sirens blared and smoke filled the sky. McCree buried his nose in his serape and stumbled his way through the wreckage of what was formerly Watchpoint: Gibraltar’s kitchen. Oh, hell. Mama was right, McCree thought. The world’s ending and he’s here to witness it as soot and cinders fell softly to his shoulders burning microscopic holes in his cotton shirt. Here he was, a lonesome cowboy, out in the Wild West by himself, minding his own business, and some ruffians had to come and blow up his hideout. Unluckily for them, the Sheriff’s in town.

McCree grinned and cocked his pistol, spinning it around in his hand and dipped his hat low to protect his brow from the falling hot ash. “Boy, howdy. Looks like we got a couple of no good crooks up trying to cause some trouble in front of the Sheriff’s station.” Facing half a dozen of Omnic soldiers, McCree drew a cigarillo from his chest pocket, lighting it on the fire slowly consuming the remnants of Mercy’s favorite lace tablecloth. He tapped a bit of ash off an end before sticking the other between his lips, a wild and predatory expression spread across his face. He fanned the hammer of his trusty six-shooter, rolled, reloaded and spun to shoot another soldier between its eyes. Rising from his crouch, McCree shoved the Peacemaker back into its holster and examined his handing work with his hands half placed in his pockets, an index finger tapping his belt buckle (BAMF, don’t you forget) pointedly.

“Oiy! Over here! McCree! Is that you, love?” A bright voice called out across a curtain of smoke, waving and jumping up and down. Squinting, McCree could see a faint blue light zig-zagging across the broken terrain until it reached him. “I thought I heard ya out here! Glad you’re safe! Come on, already! Let’s go meet everybody.”

“Woah, there, Sweetheart. Slow down a moment. Wanna fill me in on why I woke up to half the base lookin’ like a raging bronco gone and ran through it?”

Tracer giggled. “Aw, come on, McCree. Doesn’t your room already look like that normally? Just kidding! Anyway…” The young girl continued, speaking at a speed so quick, McCree felt like his head was spinning. She described a large black airship that had approached undetected early in the morning with a wicked red insignia painted on the side during Reinhardt and Torbjorn’s watch. “And I said, ‘Blimey! Reinhardt, did ya really have to charge right into it?’ And he said,” Tracer’s voice lowered into her approximate rendition of the old man’s voice, hands pressed to her waist, “’Well, the early bird gets the glory.’ Haha, just joshing ya, McCree! He didn’t _really_ say that. After Reinhardt went and rammed into the ship, all these Omnics soldiers came out, and we’ve been taking care of them since. ‘Dunno what we’re going to do about the kitchen. It’s a right mess, though!” With an exuberant “Wee!”, Tracer dashed across an outcropping that didn’t exist on Watchpoint: Gibraltar. “Well, I gotta go finish up recon for Winston! Cheers!”

After McCree tipped his hat at the youth that had already raced out of his line of sight, he took a cursory scan of his environment (sky red with fire and sunrise, sirens still going off every which way punctuated by bursts of gunfire, an arrow whizzing past his ear with a whoosh). Now, hold on a second.

McCree turned.

A metallic body crashed to the ground behind him, pierced by a wooden shaft. And in a moment, Hanzo was there, next to the body, yanking his arrow out, sparks from the wound sputtering out as he extracted the point. In the next moment, the tip was at McCree’s throat. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against the blackened end. “You will do well to pay more attention, Jesse.” Hanzo hissed, lowering the arrow and placing it back into his quiver with one fluid motion.

“I still can’t believe you’re callin’ me Jesse now, darlin’,” McCree replied. Hearing his given name muttered by the archer choked him up more than the arrow tip that had been at his throat.

Hanzo straightened to his full height, still at least half a head shorter than McCree. He scowled. “Do not call me that. We are only comrades, hardly even friends.”

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” McCree dared back, wagging an eyebrow.

“Do not test me, McCree. I could end you here and now and say that the Omnics did it,” Hanzo’s laugh was punctuated and short, but oh-so-rewarding to McCree’s ears, “But I shall spare you this time.”

“I’m quakin’ in my boots here, Shimada. Say, how about we grab a drink later? On me, seein’ as how ya just saved me ‘n all.”

“Ew, I can’t believe the old men are flirting while we’re here trying to survive. Sigh! Can you like, get in position already? Do I have to carry you two again?” D. Va’s voice rang over her mech’s intercom. She stomped away and McCree swore she could hear teenage attitude in every footstep.

“Suppose we should get to work. Where’s the good Scientist puttin’ us?”

“You are assuming we are working together.”

McCree removed his hat and fanned himself. “Aren’t we? Who else can deal with you tryin’ ta shoot their hat off all the time?”

“Your hat is still intact, is it not?” Hanzo retorted, “We are in sector C.”

“Ah, yes, good ole sector C,” McCree mused, looking into the distance at his destination.

Hanzo pointed in the opposite direction, “It is that way, fool.” Carefully, he made his way around the rocky outcropping behind their meeting spot, and McCree gave himself a moment to take a long drag on his cigarillo, blowing out the smoke and watching it join its kind in the air. He knew where sector C was. It wasn’t his first time at Watchpoint: Gibraltar. He just wanted to get a good look at his archer friend as he led the way and maybe tease him a little about it later.

-

McCree swore that Hanzo was mad at him. On a normal day, Hanzo only shot at him if he had to. The arrows always curved before the last second to strike its true target. But, today, arrow after arrow flew right past his cheek, over his hat, and once, even nicked his mechanical arm. McCree yelped and hollered into his communicator. “Can ya slow down there, Robin Hood?” He listened for the reply, but only heard the twang of Hanzo’s bowstring releasing and then a second later, a soldier crumpling to its knees. Another twang, another downed soldier. No reply.

Just in case, McCree patted his hat down closer to his head. He’s had it for years and he wasn’t about to let whatever was bothering Hanzo put a hole in it. And, perhaps because of Hanzo’s irregular mood and a little bit of worry that he had messed up somehow, McCree didn’t notice the sniper who had pulled herself onto a bridge some distance away. By the time he detected her, he only had time to see her mouth, “ _adieu_ ” before his gun went flying from his hand. He cussed and scrambled after it, rolling to dodge the next sniper shot. Hanzo was frantic in his earpiece but McCree couldn’t understand a word he was saying, his entire mind and concentration focused on finding the markswoman. Another loud bang, a yelp of pain. McCree brushed his serape aside and noted a deep dent in his chest plate, certain to leave an ugly bruise. The Peacemaker was still in one piece and loaded, too, to McCree’s relief, and he shot blindly at the spot the sniper was before his eyes could even register that she was no longer there. Looking every which way, McCree wasn’t concerned for his own safety. He was more concerned about Hanzo’s stupid concern for tradition, his insistence on not wearing protective gear, his arrows, slower than a bullet, just as deadly, but in no way going to win a shoot off against the sniper, codename: Widowmaker. “Sniper!” McCree called out.

When he spotted her, she already had the barrel of her rifle aimed straight at Hanzo, backed lit by the rising sun. McCree squinted, sweat that gathered at his brow threatening to drop into his eyes. Never before had McCree scaled a wall so quick as he rushed to push Hanzo onto the ground, but before he could reach the other man, a sharp pain in his thigh brought him falling to his knees. Red, thick blood oozed out of the wound.

“I got it, loves!” On the bridge, a blue streak chased after the sniper who had dropped behind a building and disappeared. In a moment, both were gone.

“Moron,” the communicator buzzed at him.

McCree spat the remnants of his cigarillo out onto the ground, “How ‘bout a ‘Thanks, pardner’?”

“Why? There is no reason for me to thank you. You have only jeopardized your own safety and compromised our position.”

Damn Hanzo. Solitary as always. Not a team player. Proud, aloof, unwinnable. Unobtainable for a simple cowboy from the Southwest. In his heart of hearts, McCree wanted Hanzo to clamber down from his perch and examine his wound. He wanted to feel the archer’s callused hands on his skin and breathe in the smell of roasted tea that followed Hanzo everywhere. He wanted Hanzo to care about him even a little, but the other man couldn’t care less if McCree dropped dead right then and there. Shit. Sometimes it felt the enemy liked McCree more. At least they gave him the time of day. He could imagine Hanzo’s face now. Chin high, eyes lidded, looking down at him though McCree was half a head taller and took up more space. Idiotic cowboy. Stupid American. Foolish man.

“Yo, McCree! Heard you got _shot_ ,” his communicator buzzed to life again, “On my way. Hang in there, man!” A certain audio medic called to him.

“At least someone half way capable will be here soon. Just stay here and do not put yourself in further danger,” Hanzo sniffed, indignant, and an arrow dropped next to McCree, light pulsing around its rounded tip.

Well, McCree thought, he can’t say that Hanzo didn’t give a single damn. Just not much more than that.

With only the sonar arrow’s pulsing light for company, he leaned against a boulder and waited. And waited. And after ten minutes, Lucio was still nowhere to be found. And after another ten minutes, McCree found himself surrounded by Talon underlings, both human and Omnic.

“Ain’t this a downright mess I’ve gotten myself into,” he laughed, shooting down enemy after enemy until eventually when he reached for his ammo, he discovered that he had not a single bullet left. A dozen red laser lights trained on him, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to go out cursing Hanzo until the very end. God damn it. He swayed to his feet. “Come on.”

The sky glowed blue, and the smell of damp air before a storm tickled at McCree’s nose. No matter how many times he’s seen it, McCree couldn’t get used to the sight of the two great dragons roaring across the ruined landscaped before him. Just as soon as they appeared, the two dragons vanished along with the remains of the aggressors that had threatened to pump McCree’s body full of holes just moments ago in a spray of blue dust. Stumbling across the top of a building, Hanzo clambered down to McCree, eyes wild and face scrunched into an expression of glorious rage. McCree swore he’d never seen anything so awesome or terrifying.

Simpleton. Nitwit. Imbecile. McCree readied himself for the onslaught of verbal abuse, but when Hanzo reached him he only slumped onto McCree’s shoulder, heavy and panting from exertion.

“Ya saved my hide again,” McCree said.

“I know. Do not misinterpret this.” Hanzo warned, then under his breath, “We are _not_ flirting.”

“Reckon you got a soft spot for little ole McCree after all.”

“Silence. It is impossible to,” Hanzo caught his breath, “rest with your incessant prattling.”

“Guess I owe ya two drinks now.” By the time McCree finished his sentence, Hanzo was already out cold. He smiled – no pride, cockiness, or southern swagger about him; it was a genuine, gentle smile, soft, tender, almost loving. He swept his serape off his shoulders and across the two of them. The wind carried the salty scent of the sea and the fading smell of fires since extinguished. Later, when Lucio finally arrived at the scene, he’d smile at the sight of two tired men, resting leaning against one another and set his healing tune to something soft.

**Author's Note:**

> \- when? will i. stop filling prompts at. 2 am in the morning? the answer is??? never.  
> \- also?? how to write titles??? welp.  
> \- also? unbeta'd and. mostly unedited. sorry my friends.........  
> \- [my tumblr!!!](http://denshikumori.tumblr.com/)


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